


Perhaps as a Punishment

by LittleObsessions



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jealousy, Light BDSM, Married Couple, envy - Freeform, formerlovers, inspired by Green Eyed Gomez, prompt request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22664668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/pseuds/LittleObsessions
Summary: "He realises, quite suddenly and entirely to his own surprise, that he is enjoying Morticia’s jealousy, that her sudden and rich envy has awoken something in him that he’s never been accustomed to; the upper hand."
Relationships: Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams
Comments: 6
Kudos: 98





	Perhaps as a Punishment

This was a prompt on Tumblr, from whythankyouthing. So this is for them. It also has a chapter 2 (in my head at least). 

It's a) un-beta'd, which is not a shock since I don't have anyone to beta it and b) filthy, which is also not a shock. I think we've all established what I like writing. 

* * *

“You were destined for me. Perhaps as a punishment.”  
― Dostoievski

* * *

_The Present_

“Bend over,” he instructs, tracing his fingers over the back of her thighs and deriving extreme satisfaction from the sigh that escapes into the room as he does so. She lets him press her spine to bend her hips to an angle, and she spreads her pale arms out against the oak and leather of his desk as her torso comes to lie flush against it.

Her finger curl, pale and tense, around the edges.

In the cold silence, he bends and begins pulling her dress upwards towards her waist. There is no repartee, no witty bites of dissension from her as he gathers the miles of silk at her waist, exposing the length of her legs, then her buttocks, to the air.

It feels strange, to have her so listlessly submissive.

“Are you embarrassed?” He asks, tenderness inching into his voice, dampening the anger he has so recently experienced, as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her panties.

They are an elaborate confection of straps, and the tiniest triangle of silk, biting into her thighs and hips, and he wants to take longer to savour the image of each inch of pale flesh contrasting with onyx. So, he examines her in the silence, watching, waiting. Taking his time to absorb the prettiness of her flesh.

She doesn’t dare answer, though he sees her spine tense for a moment, and it is answer enough. He won’t draw her humiliation out of her, he does not need to hear it to know it exists.

The curiosity of her reaction to this evening’s events, completely unexpected, is that it has shifted the balance, and he feels that power acutely – after all of this time, she never fails to surprise him.

He slides her panties down her endless legs.

Then, into the silence, as he drops to his knees and removes them from over her stilettos, she makes a request she has never before made, not in all of their years together:

“Punish me.”

_19 Years Earlier_

She is a solid, dependable, decent choice. From a good New York family, and with her own substantial fortune, his family have been keen for him to take the plunge though they haven’t vocalised it in an obvious way.

It’s more about the nudges, the mention of Fester’s flight, the suggestion that he isn’t leading an honourable life.

And, he ponders, she is beautiful, the way all women are; soft curves, no edges, nothing remarkable.

The sex isn’t dreadful, he’ll grant that much. It is romantic in its abundance, though he knows that will wane. And she’s made her limits – more in the region of vanilla than he would like – painfully clear. So, he has had to look elsewhere for that.

He should be satisfied. He should set his stall out and be happy with the future laid out so conveniently for him by his own carelessness; run the family businesses, make babies, carry on the Addams name.

He looks at the elegant engagement ring, and the candles in the room are reflected back in it, and it feels like a suddenly hollow gesture.

He can’t possibly ask her to marry him.

He flicks the box closed, sliding it under the pillow just as she returns to the bed.

Tomorrow, he tells himself, he will do it tomorrow. Over breakfast. Maybe over lunch.

She pulls back the sheets and crawls in, and he lets her curl her body to his. 

“You are quiet,” she turns to look into his eyes.

“Thinking,” he says softly, twisting a lock of her golden hair in his fingers.it fascinates him; the colour of honey.

“About what?”

“About what we both want from this Belle,” he says, though he doesn’t know what possesses him.

She looks thoughtful for a moment, then she smiles softly and touches his cheek, and suddenly the tone has shifted, and he suspects he may be the one to emerge from the conversation with a broken heart.

He doesn’t know if it will hurt as much as it should.

“This is not forever, if that’s what you mean,” she says, almost as if she is explaining a simple concept to a child. “I thought, at first, that it was. But, I suspect, you’ve just…settled.”

“It isn’t that,” he says feebly, though it is precisely that.

“I love you,” she sits up, brushing her fingers through her curls, and twists her legs over the bed before standing. “But not as you love me – politely, formally, with duty. I couldn’t live with that Gomez. As much as it may be a disappointment to some, I believe I deserve more than all the women I’ve known before me; being a rich man’s submissive wife…and loved only politely. And deep down, you believe that too. You would stray, because I am not enough.”

She bends at the waist, and touches his cheek softly again, and he catches her hand in his. He leaves a lingering kiss on the back.

“I was coming here to tell you I am going to London tomorrow, for an extended break,” she begins rolling her stockings up her legs. “Perhaps, when I return…”

She leaves the words hanging, hopeful and heavy in the air, and he nods, though he doesn’t know what the nod is supposed to signify.

He watches her as if from behind glass; an exotic, golden creature, and feels the delicious ache of disassembling love, and the needling relief of having escaped nihilism, all at once.

_The Present_

“You look beautiful tonight,” he leans towards her ear, the scent of almonds washing over him.

He watches her lips curl up in satisfaction at his oft-uttered praise behind her champagne glass, and she leans her silk-draped body into his even more.

“I want to take you home, and make you weep with pleasure,” he continues, whisper quiet, as they watch the dancing in the middle of the floor, and she shudders and grips his fingers tighter.

“Patience,” she counsels, eyes still on the floor. “We have to wait until after the auction at least.”

“I suspect you will make me wait longer,” he grins, and takes a sip of his own champagne as she laughs softly.

“I am proud of you tonight Morticia,” he continues, lifting her knuckles and kissing them. “You have done a lot for this organisation, and I don’t know that I acknowledge it enough. Though you do know I am always proud of you?”

“Shamefully,” she turns to him then, her smile – the one she seems to reserve only for him – radiant and secretive and says, “but never stop Gomez. I think I can imagine how the auction will carry on, if we do abscond…”

She steps towards him, leaving no space between their bodies, and sets her thigh – the split in the silk falling open to reveal pale, pearlescent flesh – hard against his groin.

It’s a good thing he’s well practised in hiding his instant ardour in public, thanks to her unpredictable inclination towards testing his limits relentlessly.

“Let me settle a few last things,” she leans up to his ears, her hair hiding the lips she grazes against his jaw from the wider audience, “and then you can take me home and live up to your promise.”

She steps back instantly, flawless and cool and utterly unflustered, and pats his chest before turning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd. 

He watches her go for a moment and is about to turn back to the music when a face – familiar and unfamiliar at the same time – appears in his line of sight. it takes a moment to pair the face with the memories, but the woman’s wide smile expediates the process.

“Belle!”

“Gomez? Gomez, I thought it was you!”

He takes her hand in his and kisses the back and is delighted when her laughter peels upwards towards the vaulting ceiling of the ballroom.

“How long has it been?” He asks. “Eighteen? Nineteen years? God, time flies.”

She opens her arms and drags him into her embrace, and the ancient familiarity of it makes him tense for a moment before he reminds himself there is nothing sinister in it. He is relieved to discover there is no spark in their embrace, just a friendly comfort.

“You look incredible,” he grins, holding her at arm’s length to examine her.

She is still beautiful, though with an undeniable quality of maturity that seems to have inexplicably escaped his wife. Not that he’s inclined to complain about that.

“It’s good to see you,” she murmurs, and the wistfulness in her tone is inescapable. 

“You too,” he smiles. 

There is a momentary pause before she says:

“You married.”

The very fact of it still rendered him breathless for a moment, and on the heel of that comes a feeling of gratefulness that fate flung him together with his wife. A love unfettered by propriety, unafraid of pleasure.

“I did. I hear you did too. My beautiful wife is here somewhere. She’s on the board, and she helped organise tonight.”

He knows his own voice is laced with pride, and Belle smiles as she recognises it. The wistfulness in her smile gives him pause for a second, then she says softly:

“My husband was a leading force in conservation. His foundation did – does - lots of work, out of London.”

“You never came back,” he laughs, without bitterness.

“I would have come back to a married – very happily, I hear – former lover. Reformed too?”

He laughs.

“Touché.”

She shrugs, as if shaking off the emotions that have come over her, and he sees them instantly for what they are: grief.

“He died,” she explains, as if she has to, as if he hasn’t already seen it enshrouding her, “at the beginning of this year. But we had eighteen long years…I don’t think I should be allowed to complain.”

The instinct to comfort her is overwhelming, and so he reaches out his hand to hold hers in a gesture of abstract understanding. Being left to face this world alone, even as a concept, terrifies him. Imagining life without Morticia manifests as a physical pain, blunt-force trauma between the ribs, the tearing out of his very heart. And it is not pleasant, not a fantasy he wishes to indulge.

It is not the ending he envisions.

“I think you can complain all you want,” he squeezes her fingers, almost breathlessly emphatic. “Your pain must be…profound.”

She smiles, a true smile of kinship, and clutches his fingers in return.

“Thank you.”

“For…what?”

Her question is whisper soft, electric as it courses across them, and instantly Gomez pulls his hand from Belle’s.

For a second tension blooms out between them, filling every inch of space with its unexpected presence. He turns, as if in slow motion, towards his wife, whose red lips are set in a smile that could well be a snarl.

For a moment he thinks to explain the situation, but an instant glance into his wife’s eyes – obsidian, dangerous, glistening with a wildness that is equally frightening and enticing – tells him that would not be wise in this entirely public setting.

Instead he snakes a hand around her waist, pulling her into his side. Her body is rigid with fury and sleek with humming tension, and she yields to him only for the sake of politeness.

“For understanding in a time of need,” he answers her question, without a pause, and she tilts her head to the side as she digs her nails into his shoulder, and he has to do everything in his power not to flinch.

“I see.” Then she turns her gaze, unblinking, on Belle, and Gomez watches his old lover flinch under that scrutiny too. “And you are?”

The abrupt impudence of it, so unlike Morticia, takes him by surprise. Ordinarily she is concerned with politeness to a degree he occasionally finds nullifying, and this is a behaviour he can’t recall a precedent for.

“Belle Montfort,” Belle answers softly, and the little hum of recognition that Morticia emits signals she had already made the connection.

After all, he has never hidden anything from her. Prior to finding her, at the edge of happiness, he had led an aimless life of whiskey and women, and he has been unrelentingly frank about it across many midnight hours and warm sheets and glasses of champagne with her.

And of course, he had told her about Belle, and the ring box he had opened on and off for a few months before Belle had unceremoniously ended their affair. He had never shirked away from the truth with Morticia, it would have been an uncalculated stupidity to do that.

Stupidity aside, he respected her too much to hide former mistakes from her. It was a mistake; he was absolutely clear on that.

“Morticia Addams,” she whispers, even before he thinks to make a formal introduction.

And everything she doesn’t have to say is implicit in her voice, like velvet, as she speaks her own name; a name she is fiercely proud of, one she wears like a sigil.

“My wife,” he says, and just like that the tension seems to slip below the need for politeness, and the fact he feels disorientated by his wife’s unusual behaviour has no place in the moment, though it stays at the front and centre of his brain.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Belle says, genuinely, but with a wariness that illustrates she knows she is supposed to be afraid.

Morticia’s brow darts up, then she softens against him and her hand come up to rest on his chest and he gets the feeling that he’s supposed to take it as a warning as opposed to an affection.

“You too.”

Nothing is forthcoming from her; she is going to make Belle do all the work. Under other circumstance – with the Amore twins, with other women who think because he is rich, he is easily malleable – he would find it entertaining, but here it feels unfair.

Belle is no measure for her, or to her, and his wife’s jealousy is misplaced in the extreme, it’s almost – he thinks for a brief moment - childish. He is insulted that she would consider the possibility of him straying in any way from their union.

Though, he reminds himself just once, she did come across him holding another woman’s hand, in an intensity of kinship, with no context.

Not that her little scarlet nails digging into his chest seem to be giving him any chance to explain.

She already wants revenge.

“Gomez tells me you’re on the board of the foundation?” Belle tries, and Morticia smiles politely.

“I am. I am rather distressed by the murder of defenceless animals, and taking them out of their natural habitats seems, to me, to be asking for trouble.”

“My husband thought the same.”

“You’re Reginald Montfort’s wife?”

If he imagines the note of awe in his wife’s voice, it’s only because he is looking for it.

“I am – I was,” Belle says gently, and that glint of sadness comes back.

“I am sorry,” Morticia says softly, with the only note of genuine tenderness she has displayed thus far. “That must be difficult.”

“It is.”

“Come for tea,” Gomez suddenly interjects, against his better judgement. “You must be in New York for a few days.”

“Indeterminately,” Belle answers. “I have lots to see to here, I’m thinking about coming home.”

“Then come,” he says again, noting that she’s yet to answer. “Morticia and I would be delighted to have you.”

He realises, quite suddenly and entirely to his own surprise, that he is enjoying Morticia’s jealousy, that her sudden and rich envy has awoken something in him that he’s never been accustomed to; the upper hand.

Usually he is a supplicant to marital jealousy, of knowing that men quite openly cast their eyes longingly over his wife and that he has to suffer jealousy while she revels in the very emotion it enrages in him. she loves it, she loves the power and the subjugation and the intensity of it all.

And quite suddenly, forcefully, he understands it.

He understands her just a little better, a little more intimately, even after all of this time.

“We would,” she says, not meaning it at all, then, “we have to return home. Mr Addams has business to attend to.”

The potent reminder strikes him exactly where it’s meant to, the heart and groin. And it births nothing but admiration in him for her razor-like precision. But he’s still angry because she has been insufferably impolite and damnably rude.

“I do indeed,” he agrees, taking her champagne glass from her and setting it on a passing tray. “I’ll go for the car,and our coats, meet me at the door.”

The fleeting horror on his wife’s face is enough to chastise her, he thinks. She has never before been robbed of her power so calmly.

“You can organise tea, cara mia, can’t you?”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

He flexes his palm open, tenses his fingers, and the glint of his wedding ring catches his eye. He considers removing it, even bringing his hand up to spin it off, before he reconsiders it.

It will leave a pretty welt.

Her breathing is the only thing that breaks the silence of his study, though her final request seems to linger like a third party, a voyeur awaiting its satisfaction.

He’ll be damned if he won’t fulfil his promise.

He drops her panties carelessly on the desk, on top of his diary and his favourite fountain pen.

She’s waiting, coiled, completely in his trust. It’s a bizarre feeling, to have so much unlimited power in the face of her prolific – unappealing – envy.

He traces the curve of her buttocks with his finger, taking time to appreciate it slowly, agonisingly.

She whimpers her disdain but stays perfectly still.

Then he flattens his palm against one plump cheek, and she arches her spine up, awaiting the sting of pain he’s about to inflict. He pushes her down, making sure she is flush with the desk.

He lifts his hand up, pauses mid-air, and then brings it down with a forceful crack against her soft flesh.

Of all the things he admires about her, her defiance is amongst his absolute favourite. And it manifests itself as a bitten silence, with only a flinch away from his touch and the vermillion shape of his palm on her stinging white flesh to show for it.

He takes a moment, and does it again, and again once more before she is panting, and he realises he is too.

He is also achingly hard.

He doesn’t need to tell her what to do next, she does it as if on instinct, as if their pattern has worked its way into her subconscious.

She opens her legs just a little, so he can slide his fingers into her wet and wanting and – he knows it from every sacred moment – delicious flesh, and he pushes his fingers into her, and she does not flinch away.

“Your envy,” he withdraws his hand, and brings it to strike her flesh again, “was the most monstrous thing I have ever witnessed.”

She does cry out this time, a culmination of the lingering pain and her fury at having been chastised for her behaviour.

“You…” she turns her head from her position against the desk and her eyes are on fire, “invited her-“she gasps as another one of his blows lands on her flesh, “…for tea.”

His hand comes down again, but stops just as she tenses, to flutter softly across her fractious body.

“I am not interested in anything, anyone, but you…”

She suddenly rises up and he sees, instantly, his own power incinerated to ash in front of him as she straightens up and turns to face him. She pulls apart the neckline of her dress, leaving it on her shoulders and exposing her flushed skin, her beautiful breasts, her flaming anger. She settles against his desk, hair wild, eyes blazing, and pulls the skirt of her dress open in invitation.

One he won’t take until he’s wrung every last bit of power from this rare moment.

“I will die assured of that,” she breathes, ferocious eyes, hard mouthed, control a thing of the past, even if it is also very much a thing of the present. “I don’t need your reassurance.”

The venom in her voice, the pleading desperation of her delicious supplication, makes him feel tense with fear. She pushes her legs open, hiking up her skirt, an explicit invitation, and he doesn’t hesitate.

He hooks his hands under her thighs and raises her up onto the surface, but instead of following her implied instructions, he drops to his knees in front of her.

“You considered marry-“

His tongue silences her, and he enjoys the dynamic of that in a way he’s never appreciated until now. For a moment he thinks he has her under his spell, until she pushes his head away.

He looks up, licks his lips, holds her thighs open with flat palms.

“I considered proposing,” he leans forward and nips her marble flesh with his teeth, “and I thought better of it, very quickly.”

He lunges forward again, assaulting her flesh with his tongue. But she is prepared this time, even though she takes a moment to enjoy the carnal pleasure of the exchange before coming to her better senses.

“But you thought about it,” she murmurs through gritted teeth, though this time she holds him to his task, so he has no choice but to maintain silence. Her nails dig into his scalp, a type of punishment, and so he swipes his tongue against her, and she whines her satisfaction into the study.

The lines of the exchange have blurred, and now he doesn’t know who is meting out the punishment. He is very clear though that this is a punishment he would endure for all eternity.

Her beautiful envy, her delicious body.

And all of her power.

She comes, hard and hot, her thighs closing around his head as she growls her climax, grinding against his face until she is spent, and her thighs go limp around his neck.

“I was never going to-“

“Stop,” she commands, and he feels the dynamic now, so palpable he can touch it. He was a fool, even in the face of her envy, to think he would ever have the upper hand.

She pulls him up by the shirt, positioning him between her own legs.

“Take what’s yours, what you chose, what you asked for,” she grips his cock tightly, almost painfully, within her fingers. “And never forget who you belong to.”

“There’s slim chance of that happening,” he mutters darkly, letting her guide him into her.

He thrusts into her and when he moves to kiss her, she pulls away. And he sees it is to be like that, clashing lust, no romance. Nothing that resembles forgiveness.

This is, after all, what he longed for. It makes him roar with arousal, and when she stretches her arm out behind her and arches out her back, he leans forward and grazes his teeth over one nipple and then another. Teeth raking marks into what is his, what is already his, what will always be his, and once he has a taste he can’t stop. He finds his mouth biting at every inch of her pearlescent flesh, words imprinted on her skin, and it seems to drive her higher and higher, until she is arched like a cat and screaming obscenities, so beautiful they sound like tongues, into the air.

Before blinding light robs him of coherence he leans forward and pulls her up, forcing her to come face to face with him. He grips her neck, holds her so close that she is incapable of escape, and forces her to look at him, in spite of the fact she truly doesn’t want to.

It would mean having to listen to what he has to say.

“Never doubt me, or my fidelity, again,” he holds her face firm in his fingers as she tries to turn away. “Do you hear me, Mrs Addams?”

She nods, and her face softens for an infinitesimal moment, before she presses her lips to his, and there is so much more softness in the gesture than anything else.

He thrusts into her as she wraps her arms around him, her fingers sliding over his cheeks and into his hair, where she pulls his head against his shoulder. They move against each other, sinuous and yielding, until they come together, skin to skin, their cries heavy and dense in the moment.

They stay, breaths calming, sweat forming on their bodies, the silence softer, more gentle, less intimidating, before she finally speaks.

“I hear you,” she says into his hair.

“Don’t stop listening again.”


End file.
